A World of Hurt: Infection
by Alipeeps
Summary: Part of a series of Shep whumpy tag fics to Season 3 eps. Irresistible tag. SPOILERS FOR IRRESISTIBLE! John Sheppard woke up feeling like crap.... NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_Part of the "A World of Hurt" series – an ongoing, only slightly AU series of whumpy tag fics to the each of the Season 3 episodes. By hook or by crook I will work some Shep whump into every episode.. if TPTB won't do it, then I'll just have to do it myself :) These stories are designed to fit in with the canon of Season 3 – imagine, if you will, that they take place "off-screen" before, during or after the episode, as appropriate._

_This fic, third in the series, is the tag fic for Irresistible – for some reason this chapter insisted on being written in a slightly more humorous style than my usual fare… hopefully the overall effect is somewhat in keeping with the tone of the episode :) More chapters to follow._

_Please read and review._

_**SPOILERS FOR IRRESISTIBLE!

* * *

**_

John Sheppard woke up feeling like crap.

His head felt stuffy and heavy, he couldn't breathe through his nose and his chest felt tight and congested. He tried to take in a deep breath and his lungs erupted in a paroxysm of coughing that rasped in his throat and made his chest ache like hell and left him gasping for breath.

"Crap," he cursed feelingly. His voice sounded awful too, deep and rough and ragged.

He rolled over sluggishly, the sheets tangling around his torso, and looked blearily for his clock.

"Oh shit!" The exclamation set off another coughing fit and for a moment or two it was all he could do to breathe through the spasming of his chest muscles and the rasping pain in his throat. Eurgh. He swallowed back a miserable moan and looked again at the clock, hoping he'd been mistaken. Nope. Dammit. Not only did he feel like the proverbial seven shades, he'd also overslept and was late for the briefing.

He was hurriedly pulling on his pants when his radio clicked and he heard Weir's voice, "Colonel Sheppard, come in?" He nearly took a headfirst dive for the floor, stumbling awkwardly as he tried to simultaneously pull up his pants and run to the bedside table where he'd left his headset. He was out of breath and his voice still sounded rough and thick as he fumbled the earpiece into place and clicked the transceiver, "Yeah, I'm on my way. Be there in a minute.."

There was a moment's silence and he hurriedly fastened his pants and reached for his boots. "Are you okay, John?" There was a note of enquiry in Weir's voice, mixed with the merest hint of concern. He felt a cough building in his throat and had the presence of mind to hit the switch and cut the transmission before he deafened Elizabeth. He bent over slightly, his fist to his mouth as a series of hoarse coughs rattled in his chest.

The radio clicked once. "John?" Yeah. Definite concern now. He grimaced.

"I'm fine. I'll be there in a sec. Sheppard out." He clicked the radio off before another series of coughs shook him and cleared his throat noisily as he sat down on the bed to lace his boots. Oh this was not shaping up to be a good day at all…

* * *

They were all waiting for him when he hurried into the conference room, still settling his belt comfortably around his hips, and he could _feel_ four pairs of eyes track his progress as he mumbled a brief "Sorry guys," and slid into the nearest empty seat at the table.

He'd hoped they could just get down to business, seeing as he had already put the briefing fifteen minutes behind schedule, but he should have known there wasn't much hope of that.

"What's wrong with you? You look awful."

He threw a McKay a look that was a combination of a death glare for broaching the subject and a sarcastic smile of thanks for the, admittedly backhanded, expression of concern.

"I'm fine. Just a bit of a cold," he explained to the room at large, his dismissive tone making it clear that it was no big deal and that the subject was now closed and could we please move on? Fat chance.

McKay's face wrinkled in distaste and he not too subtly edged his chair a bit further away from John's. "Oh, great. Are you contagious?"

Sheppard really didn't like feeling ill and he was starting to feel that his patience was being severely tried this morning as he fixed McKay with a glare that spoke volumes but, before he could reply, Elizabeth stepped in and effectively neutralised the escalating conflict.

"I'm sure you're perfectly safe, Rodney," she soothed with practice born of years of diplomacy and a long experience of dealing with the idiosyncrasies of Dr Rodney McKay, "but nonetheless, John, you should get Carson to check you over before you go off-world." She smiled at him reasonably, though he swore he saw a hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes. "Just to be on the safe side."

He gave her a somewhat sick smile in return, his heart sinking into his boots. He hated infirmary check-ups… as she well knew. Besides, what was Carson going to be able to do about a cold? Big fat nothing, that's what. The only thing an infirmary visit was gonna get him was being poked, prodded and lectured - and probably a needle stick for good measure – and a diagnosis of a cold; treatment for said condition being, effectively, "suck it up until it goes away on its own".

Between feeling really quite crappy, being late for the meeting, and the prospect of an enforced visit to Carson's domain, John felt was beginning to feel quite justifiably sorry for himself and more than entitled to discretely sulk his way through the briefing.

* * *

"Sorry, Colonel."

Sheppard threw Carson a thoroughly disgruntled look, feeling a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment at his predicament. He felt like a prize idiot sitting on an exam bed holding his shirt up whilst Beckett held a stethoscope to his chest and he was sure the nurse assisting Carson was hiding a smirk at his involuntary flinch at the touch of the cold metal against his skin. Despite his distracted apology, Carson didn't actually sound remotely sorry.

"Aren't you medical types supposed to be all caring and sympathetic and stuff?" he groused just a little petulantly.

Carson actually looked up at his reluctant patient at that and gave a distinctly insincere smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, Colonel. Next time you're in a grumpy mood we'll make sure we keep you hanging around that wee bit longer while we take the time to warm up the stethoscope for you. Shall I ask Melissa to get you a lollipop while you wait?" Beckett turned his attention back to listening to Sheppard's lungs do their wheezing thing without bothering to wait for an answer and John was left to face the nurse's wide grin as he sullenly mumbled, "No, that's okay.."

He really should know better by now than to complain to Carson about medical matters; it only ever earned him, at best, a lesson in the proper use of sarcasm that could rival McKay's best efforts and, at worst, a literally pointed reminder that Carson was the man in possession of not only all the big pointy needles on Atlantis but also the know-how and the will to use them. So far this visit, Sheppard had gotten away with his veins intact but he had a feeling that might cease to be the case if he pushed Beckett too far.

The stethoscope had moved around to his back. "Breathe in deeply for me, Colonel."

He did as requested, reluctantly, and was rewarded with the not-unexpected result: a bought of coughing that had him hunched forward on the exam bed, his hand to his mouth as his lungs tried to exit his body via his oesophagus. His eyes were watering when he finally straightened up and the slightly blurry Carson standing before him had a much more sympathetic smile on his face.

"Well, Colonel. I'm afraid you've got a cold."

It took an effort of will but Sheppard actually managed not to say anything he would come to regret. Instead he nodded meekly, like a good little patient, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"There's not much I can give you for it, I'm afraid," Carson continued, far too cheerfully for John's liking. "Decongestants and painkillers can help alleviate your symptoms but anything too heavy-duty will knock you for six and would mean no off-world activities."

The doctor slung his stethoscope around his neck as he spoke, "It'll clear up in its own time, son. Until then, I'm afraid, you're going to be feeling a wee bit the worse for wear."

John held back a sigh. He could have given that exact prognosis to Elizabeth in the conference room and saved himself 20 minutes of infirmary-related torture. He gave in to another brief coughing fit and grimaced as he hopped down off the exam bed, shrugging his jacket back on over his standard black t-shirt.

"Thanks, Doc." His voice sounded thick and hoarse and he could see Beckett eyeing him with a mixture of sympathy and concern even as he patted the man casually on the shoulder and beat a speedy retreat from the infirmary.

"Are you sure you don't want a decongestant, Colonel?" Beckett called after him.

"No thanks, Doc." He turned around to reply but kept moving, walking backwards as he spoke; no rotten cold was gonna keep him from going off-world and flying his beloved jumper.

"Don't have the luxury of time off right now. We've got gates to scout for the harvesting programme and Rodney has been muttering something about a "schedule".

* * *

_TBC…_


	2. Chapter 2

_Part of the "A World of Hurt" series – an ongoing, only slightly AU series of whumpy tag fics to the each of the Season 3 episodes. By hook or by crook I will work some Shep whump into every episode.. if TPTB won't do it, then I'll just have to do it myself :) These stories are designed to fit in with the canon of Season 3 – imagine, if you will, that they take place "off-screen" before, during or after the episode, as appropriate._

_Please read and review._

_**SPOILERS FOR IRRESISTIBLE!

* * *

**_

John Sheppard awoke feeling awful.

He lay still and took stock of his various aches and pains. His head pounded and his muscles ached, his nerves still jumping and shivering from the sting of the stunner blast. His chest felt tight and his throat raw from coughing and he still couldn't breathe worth a damn through his nose. As he slowly focused on his surroundings he realised with mild disgust that he had been drooling. It took him a moment to identify the cold, unyielding surface under his cheek as the floor of the jumper. Oh yeah, that's right. Jumper, Carson, Ronon, stunner. What a great day this was turning out to be.

He couldn't help but jump slightly when a nearby voice growled, "He's awake." Something – a foot? – nudged him, none-too-gently, and he rocked slightly in place, realising belatedly that his hands were fastened securely behind his back. He chanced cracking open an eye, squinting painfully as even the subdued light of the jumper aggravated his headache, and was met with the sight of a large, battered leather boot. His gaze travelled up along a long - very long - leather-clad leg and up to a swinging mass of dreadlocked hair and sharp brown eyes that regarded him with a distinctly cold and unfriendly look.

He swallowed painfully.

"Hey, Ronon." His voice came out rasping and dry, surprisingly shaky-sounding. There was no answer from the hulking Satedan, Ronon ignoring his attempt at a casual greeting and leaning back silently against the wall of the rear compartment, his coolly appraising gaze still locked on John.

Sheppard grimaced.

"You shouldn't have taken Carson like that, John." Sheppard craned his neck uncomfortably backwards to find Teyla standing in the cockpit doorway, her eyes as cold and unfriendly as Ronon's.

"Lucius was very upset." She said that like it was the worst thing in the world. He guessed maybe to her, it was. He found that thought a little scary and a lot depressing. Ever since that obnoxious, manipulative man had come to Atlantis everything had gone to hell and John had seen every single one of his friends, people he was closer to than anyone else in the world, turn against him. The moment in the gateroom when Ronon had pointed his gun in John's face had been like a punch in the gut. Looking around him, he had become suddenly, inescapably aware of how desperately outnumbered he was, how utterly alone. He was the only person not affected, not in thrall to Lucius' whims. He alone could fix this and save his friends, save the city. There was no help coming; there was no back-up, no safety net. If he didn't find a way out of this, they were all dead.

It had been a bitter realisation, looking around those familiar faces and seeing not friends, not colleagues, not soldiers under his command, but strangers, enemies; people who would harm him if he didn't go along with their plans. He'd struggled to keep his calm as he'd tried to talk his way out of the tense situation, playing the sympathy card, charming Elizabeth, apologising to Lucius, mentally biting down on the words he would really have liked to say to that arrogant, lecherous, weasely sonofa..

He'd tried his best; had thought that if he could get Carson away from Lucius and his pheromones for long enough, the doctor would regain his senses and would be able to help John come up with a way to beat this, to get his friends back.

From his current position, the situation was looking less than positive. Carson was on his way to be joyfully reunited with good old Lucius and John was tied up on the cold, hard floor of the jumper surrounded by cold-faced facsimiles of his closest friends and facing an increasingly uncertain future. He was finding it hard to not dwell on how quickly, without even a second's hesitation, Ronon had shot him. He flexed his hands experimentally and felt the sharp pull of a plastic tie cut into his wrists. He still ached all over and he was beginning to suspect it was not simply the after-effects of Ronon's stunner. He stretched his legs out experimentally and caught his breath at the twinge of pain that travelled up his spine. He had a slight suspicion that his "friends" had been less than careful about transporting him back to the jumper. He wondered how long he'd been out.

"Should we not untie him? It can't be comfortable down there.." Carson's voice. Dammit, it had sounded like the doc was on to something just before the cavalry had arrived.

"He doesn't _deserve_ to be comfortable!" Rodney gave his opinion from the cockpit, his voice muffled as he spoke over his shoulder. McKay must be flying the jumper, Sheppard realised. He was wondering how much time he had before they got back to the city when, "Flight, this is Jumper 1. We are en route for bay landing, ETA 2 minutes." There was an unmistakable note of joyful relief in McKay's voice and John risked a glance upward to see a broad smile across Ronon's face. Crap.

It was Ronon who dragged Sheppard to his feet as the jumper touched down, the Satedan not bothering to be gentle. John grimaced as his bruised and aching muscles protested the rough treatment, Ronon's hands tightening painfully around his arms as John stumbled, his legs refused to bear his weight for a brief moment. When he staggered unevenly down the sloped rear hatch, Ronon keeping a distrustful grip in his shoulder, he found Elizabeth waiting, her eyes hard beneath a determined frown.

He had no idea what to say, what he _could_ say, to make her see how wrong this was, to make her bring back the other Elizabeth, the Elizabeth who trusted him, who believed in him, but it didn't matter because she didn't wait for him to speak. She simply looked at him, her eyes full of a distaste and disappointment he had thought – hoped – never to see there, and turned her gaze to the patiently-waiting Ronon. "Take him to the holding cell."

Her voice was as cold as her eyes and, without another word, she turned and walked away.

The walk to the holding cell was a little slice of hell. It seemed the entire expedition team had heard of his capture and the "rescue" of Carson and faces at once achingly familiar and coldly distant stopped what they were doing and watched him pass by, their eyes full of the same disgust that he had seen in Elizabeth's gaze. His friends, his family, looked at him as though he were the lowest kind of criminal as Ronon escorted him through the city, hurrying him along with the occasional heavy-handed shove that sent him staggering.

He balked for a moment on arriving at the cell, hit hard by the reality of the situation; they were locking him up, putting him in the cage they'd previously used to contain a vicious Wraith. Things pretty much couldn't get any worse.

As it turns out, he was wrong.

Having an enemy who used to be one of your closest friends was unpleasant in so many ways, not least because Ronon knew Sheppard so well, knew his strengths, his weaknesses and his tactics. Most importantly, Ronon knew how stubborn and tenacious Sheppard could be in the face of adversity and it was apparent that the tall Satedan intended to take no chances with his prisoner.

As soon as the door to the cell swung open, a brutal shove to John's back sent him sprawling onto the cell floor. Unable to keep his balance or to put his hands out to catch himself, he hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs and sending a jarring pain through his right shoulder. An instant later Ronon's knee was jammed into his back, pinning him firmly to the floor. He was too busy trying to suck in air to even try and struggle – exactly Ronon's intention, he was sure - as the runner slipped a sharp blade between his wrists and quickly sliced through the plastic tie.

Ronon stepped back quickly, moving out of Sheppard's reach and John had to smother a disbelieving laugh – _they_ didn't trust _him_! Dammit, he was the only sane person in this nuthouse and they were acting like _he_ was the crazy one. It was a suddenly sobering thought as he realised that, in the twisted perceptions of his friends and colleagues, he was the dangerous one – he had let them all down, run off and attacked and kidnapped one of the team and held him hostage.

He lay where he had fallen, his breathing still labored, and gingerly flexed his arms, his stiff muscles protesting the sudden movement after an hour or more of being pulled tight behind his back. He heard the cell door close and looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Ronon's back as he strode from the room. The Satedan had not spoken a word to him since putting a gun to his head and stunning him on the mainland. John sighed, the hopelessness of his situation beginning to overwhelm him.

He rolled slowly over onto his back, feeling roughly 100 years old, and gave a low, heartfelt groan. He felt awful; achy and shivery and tired and just beaten down. And compounding his misery was the knowledge that he would eventually start to feel better; his cold would clear up and then he would be as susceptible to Lucius' drug as everyone else and it would be game over. The thought of spending his near future following Lucius around like some lovesick little puppy made him sick with anger, a quiet fury building in the pit of his stomach and flooding his veins with warmth, giving him the energy to clamber, albeit slowly and unsteadily, to his feet. He moved like an old man, his muscles stiff and aching, frequent harsh coughs bending him over, rasping tightly in his chest, leaving him swallowing against the pain in his throat. He tried to keep moving, to stretch and loosen up his muscles; he began to pace the small confines of his cell.

Lucius found him still pacing some few hours later and the resulting conversation did little to calm Sheppard's growing anger. He forced himself to maintain a casual air, the two of them sitting and chatting almost amicably, John determined not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing his fury – and his fear. He wasn't entirely successful though; Lucius' bald statement of his avowed intent to drug Sheppard against his will, to turn him into another mindless slave, as soon as his cold cleared up cut to the heart of John's fears and he couldn't hold back the cold steel in his voice as he told Lucius "Get too close to me and it'll be the last thing you do." He meant every word – and he could see Lucius knew it too. Knew it and didn't care. Lucius thought he had everything under control.

To be honest, Sheppard thought he had too. The situation was looking pretty grim. He remained sitting after Lucius left, his head in his hands as he contemplated the reality of his situation.

When the door into the holding room opened a second time, he was half expecting Lucius again, come back to gloat about his gene therapy. Instead, he looked up to see the last person he would have expected.. and for the first time since waking up in the jumper he felt hope, felt that they might just get out of this one.

His visitor smiled – not a "Lucius happy land" smile but a genuine, "relieved to see you're okay" smile – as he opened the cell door and for one wild moment John felt like he could hug the man right there on the spot. He contented himself with a pleased smile as he rose from his seat to meet his rescuer.

"Hi Carson."

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
